


Surrender to Feeling

by bloodsongs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/pseuds/bloodsongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this narrow, blank space, Harry isn’t the Boy-Who-Lived, Draco isn’t a Death Eater. Harry’s not the Saviour, and Draco isn’t the Malfoy scion. Here, Harry is his master. And Draco? Draco obeys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender to Feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonata_de_morte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonata_de_morte/gifts).



He drags his teeth down that shivering neck, a sinister, teasing promise. Flicks out a tongue, sure and sly, tasting the sweet surrender in Draco’s sweat. A whimper escapes Draco’s throat, a choked off, tiny sound that rings impossibly loud in the room.

“I told you to be quiet.” Harry’s voice is calm, a soft threat, and it prickles like a thousand knives against Draco’s skin; the other man squirms, writhing even as he struggles to stay in the position Harry had commanded him to not move from. “And you will  _obey me._ ”

The disdain in his voice lashes like a whip. Draco blinks slowly, not terrified, but certainly cowed; also, aroused beyond all possible belief, if the way his cock is full and red and straining is any indication.  
  
Harry breathes, taunting heat, against Draco’s ear. “You enjoy serving your master, don’t you? Dirty little cockslut.”  
  
Whispers, those whispers carry and slide over Draco’s skin like a slithering snake, stirring him, waking him until he’s all desire, nothing but desire for the man before him. “Harry-”   
  
Those piercing green eyes fix on him in a flash, and just like that, Draco falls into an obedient, petulant silence at the force of Harry’s deceptively cool glare.   
  
Harry paces before him, a relaxed posture that manages to be completely unconcerned yet commanding all at once. His power snarls in the room, low and menacing, coating him like a vivid, dark cloak that is shimmering in all its intensity.   
  
Draco aches for it. For completion. For that unbridled power to ensconce him. But for now, he wants nothing more than Harry. To serve.  
  
But he doesn’t like to submit to Harry completely, no. He knows that Harry relishes a challenge, a little spark of rebellion even in his submission, and Draco answers that preference by pushing, pushing Harry to the brink; obeying his master while he tests him, testing at Harry’s limits. Draco is a curious mix of insolence and compliance, a combination that both infuriates and drives Harry absolutely insane - with lust, that is.  
  
Complete dominance and complete submission is just so… droll, after all, he thinks. Clichéd. Old. And ultimately uneventful.  
  
And where is the fun in that?  
  
So he lowers his eyes just this side of submissive, keeps almost defiantly still (something Draco has perfected with some degree of smugness that always causes Harry’s eyes to narrow when the other man notices, but it’s no question who’s really in power - Harry, Harry with his ice-cool voice, his fingers long and sure), quiet within his bonds; his hands locked tightly in front of him, his knees on the hard, cold floor.   
  
His master, his. And he belongs to Harry, completely.  
  
Harry’s steps shift just a little, belying his restlessness, though his cool, imperious demeanor lingers about him as he prowls like a dark, growling panther. The power is almost suffocating now, all the magic in the room trailing hot tendrils along Draco’s skin, and Draco relishes in it, feeling the excitement of belonging to this powerful wizard.  
  
“My whore, my fucktoy,” Harry murmurs casually, like a caress. Draco has to close his eyes, the sensuality of it igniting something within him that curls hot and deep, a lick of desire in his groin. He is already unbearably close to the brink, and Harry’s conditioned him to respond, respond to every word he utters like a command.  
  
He loves it.  
  
Harry snaps his fingers, and Draco straightens instantly, alert and ready and taut as chains materialise in a spitting haze of magic, clapping soundly around him like iron embraces as he is pinned, spread against the wall.  
  
Draco’d be damned if his balls don’t draw up tight at that little show  of power (except it is in no way little because fuck, Harry’s one of the few wizards who can utilise wandless, non-verbal magic like that and it was and still is one of the fucking hottest things Draco has ever seen), the power of the compelling Boy-Who-Lived - but in this narrow, blank space, Harry isn’t the Boy-Who-Lived, Draco isn’t a Death Eater. Harry’s not the Saviour, and Draco isn’t the Malfoy scion.  
  
Here, Harry is his master. And Draco?   
  
Draco obeys.


End file.
